alous of their attention, fearful of their influence. Percy,
she cried, not she, would prove faithless. She would gladly, willingly,
eagerly fly to his side, nurse him night and day, dwell with him in
bliss and a wigwam if need be; but he--he was cold--he was changing--he
would prove faithless to his humble, adoring village maid, and then
there would be nothing left for her but despair. Then as his
convalescence progressed she became insistent and Mrs. Davies weaker.
Almira poured forth her plaint to her aunt by letter. Aunt Almira gave
another dinner, to which some of the staff were bidden, and a mellow
symposium it was, and over the oft-replenished champagne glasses did the
kindly woman tell of Mrs. Davies's craving to see her boy once more, and
how the boy would ask no favors, though her husband, the magnate,
offered to send to the lieutenant passes all the way from Cheyenne. Two
Almiras prevailed, and the last month of the mother's life was blessed
and gladdened by the presence of her devoted son. Almost the last
promise asked of him was that there should be no delay in the marriage
of her dear children, as she called them, though the poor soul had many
a misgiving now as to whether Almira, after all, would prove a worthy
helpmate for her earnest, duteous son. Indeed, she at one time had
thought to ask that they might be united before her eyes, but Almira's
wedding garment wasn't ready, and Almira, who had urged all speed, was
not prepared for speed so great as that. She, too, secretly nourished
the idea of a military wedding and a big church. Davies never meant to
retreat from his obligation, but he had hoped to make the girl fully
understand what was before her,--what army life and its duties were
really like,--but his every effort to talk with her gravely and
earnestly met with reproach and tears. She didn't care what it was, all
she asked was to share his lot, no matter how poor, how humble. It was
he who, after for years making her love him so, was now doubting and
distrusting her. She knew how it would be when those other women,
instead of her, had been chosen to nurse and care for him. They had
usurped her place. They had undermined her. That--that Miss Loomis whom
he was holding up as a model to her--all this time! He'd break her
heart, and she'd just go--anywhere except home--and die. She had no
home. She had given up everybody--everything for him, and now he was
tiring of her. Well, it was pretty trying, but